trauma, catharthsis & rocking the casbah

so, i am slowly accepting that i have some residual trauma from the fire. in case you missed it when i buried it deep in the middle of a post that said basically nothing at all, there was a fire. i did not cause it. and i did not die in it. that is a very, very lucky good thing. it was close. or could have been. curious fact: i got a massive burn on my thigh just before leaving for the trip during which the fire happened. foreshadowing? or meaningless search for meaning? is the search for meaning in such things inherently meaningless? maybe it is necessary. maybe it provides some moorings amid life's storms, gives that sense of the ineffable its moonlit appeal, or simply helps us process. i have had a hard time processing this, to be honest. and i know that not everything has meaning. sometimes things just burn. but to help with my processing, i thought i would be brave and take stock. of what was actually destroyed in the fire. and what was not. the stuff (which matters little) and the spirit (which matters much). ahem.

what was destroyed
- my laptop
it was full of mediocre poetry. much of it related to my ex-fiance. in case you've missed it earlier (still don't know how to link; SJ someone teach me please), i write mediocre poetry. it's a special talent to always write mediocre poetry - not awful, not excellent, or even good, maybe occasionally bad, but generally mediocre.*
- fancy expensive purple sunglasses
from my ex-fiance. i initially took them when i was trying to gather my things, thinking they just had soot on them. but instead pieces of exploded laptop were embedded into the lenses. it actually felt freeing to throw them away somehow. (incidentally, i may have always looked a little ridiculous in them.)
- a fabulous purple floppy sunhat
a gift from little trouble. maybe this whole fire was about burning the ghosts of love gone bad / boyfriends past. the hat never travelled well anyway. (incidentally, i looked fabulous in it.)
- a lovely yellow linen sundress
too covered in soot to be salvaged. either that or the dry-cleaner stole it and kept it for himself. i'd rather still be able to feel the sunlight than have a sundress, though. so not much of a loss. reminds me of a brian andreas quote - "she left pieces of herself everywhere she went, " it's easier to feel the sunlight without them, " she said.
- a bunch of books i had just bought
i didn't replace them. i bought new books instead. maybe i wasn't meant to read them. or maybe it's time to get a kindle.
- papers for renewing my NY state bar registration
perhaps a sign. i wasn't certain whether i would renew anyway since i'm not much of a lawyer, didn't go to law school to be one really, and can't imagine ever practicing again. true story: when i had my first session with my legal writing tutor during my first year of law school she said, "your writing is like flower [complete with hand gesture vaguely suggestive of a blossoming peony]. legal writing does not involve flower [repeat hand gesture]. it is linear [gesturing emphasizing this by creating the rungs of a ladder in the air]. and it is logical." i knew then that it would be a long year. although i really loved law school. and eventually learned how to write like a lawyer. sort of.
- my little black journal / book i carry for writing thoughts down
but i couldn't bear to part with it so i still have it. although most of the pages of journaling are illegible (again, a sign?), many of the pages where i collected images or ideas or words that i stumble across and find inspiring are fine. i bought a new little black book. although i haven't started using it yet. i wanted to transfer some if the lines from the old one. but maybe i'll just start anew and list some of them here instead. and call that catharsis. ok, please see below.
- some other random things
- my friend's ex-husband's furniture
- self-consciousness
- fear (some)

what was not destroyed
- me
or anyone else. thank god. and no one was hurt.
- nothing that actually matters
the rest is just stuff.
- fear (some)
- anxiety
in fact i think the fire has triggered all sorts of anxiety i never knew i had.
- friendship
- trust
- cufflinks
they had been sent to be given as a gift for a friend's wedding. the other gifts were also not destroyed. (a good omen?)
- love
- laughter

after the fire i had a very strong desire to simply be held. still do, in fact. although i am reminding myself that it is enough to hold myself. or must be enough. this is perhaps an understandable feeling. i also saw a trauma specialist shrinker today, who said much of the stress that has surfaced and lingered and feels like fallout from the fire is quite common. even though i said 'trauma' felt self-indulgent and too big to describe this. he said we can use another word. i'm not sure if i need a trauma specialist or to simply be held by a beautiful man. but i'd like to stop dreaming about flames, so will see what the former can do for me in the absence of the latter. curiously, after returning from my session with mr. trauma, i stumbled across this in a newspaper article:

“The human condition is that traumatic events occur,” said David B. Adams, a psychologist in private practice in Atlanta. “The reality is that we are equipped to deal with them. The challenge that lies before us is quite often more important than the disappointment that surrounds us.”

life is trauma. and we endure. and love it anyway. now for the catharsis of reading through my collected fragments and sharing a few! then i'll listen to the clash's 'rock the casbah' as i walk to dinner. and thus the subject of this post has meaning.

fragments
poetry is the means of saving power from itself
to lose balance sometimes is part of living a balanced life
youth is a blind incongruous beast
espresso as thick as the devil's sweat
out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing there is a field. i will meet you there. (rumi!)
sometimes taking care of yourself means letting yourself be misunderstood
and of course, like all novelists, she had unrealistic expectations
barely bearable raw immediacy
how imprecise the language is, how inadequate to its occasions
cowardly tender nostalgia, trying to get back to a gentler truth
a fierce and lawless quiver of freedom, of loneliness too harsh and perfect for me now to bear
the reddening skies, the entering silences

our lives are not exercises from school that have no relevance; they have the ultimate relevance. our lives can damage other people; our lives can heal other people; our lives can nourish other people and our lives can transform other people. our lives become the stars that others steer by, and if we live them well, the world will change. live well. it matters.



*i shall share one poem that was blown up with the computer but remains in gmail. i like this one b/c it's a nod to ntozake shange, written decemberish, 2004 i think. in other news, please note that i got through this post with only one footnote. impressive. ok, now the poem -

almost

someone almost got away with my stuff.
not my endless butterfly stories,
or an impromptu dance i gave up in the street,
but someone almost walked off with all of my stuff –
taking so much more that what can be given away –
without even caring enough to let me know that
he was still keep shards of me in his pockets,
selfishly hoarding my stuff in his soul,
trying to keep my essence under embargo.

but i will not stand to let someone, anyone,
hold onto my stuff – what use
could it be to him anyhow?
i'm the only one who can fill myself completely;
the only one who can suit my sparkle.
so i demand my stuff back – i crave my tenderness,
my strong vulnerability, my floating rib,
and my finger with the donkey-bite scar;
i cry for my full ferocity and my firelight eyes,
my dance and my calloused feet and my quick laugh
in my mouth – honey and vanilla and apricot.

it was a man who took it, a someone with a swagger-ego so big
it interfered in everyone’s shadows, a lover i gave too much to,
bright eyes i gave everything to, but he couldn’t hold me,
and almost walked off with my stuff –
almost got away with me in a plastic bag under his arm,
dangling on a string of personal carelessness,
getting splattered by mud and city rain and selfishness,
not taking care to keep me dry,
and still asking for more of me.

but i need my stuff back – all of it. all of me.
i have stood outside myself too long
watching this kleptomaniac and
i am roaring and sounding the alarms.
stealing my stuff, doesn’t make it yours –
it makes it stolen.
so go get your own things, and be done with mine.
you had your chance, when i gave myself to you –
my whimsical kisses, my nice-ass-for-a-white-girl and
my beloved little tummy, my magnanimous touch,
my bright colours, my unruly sweaters and my unkempt passion,
the sweetness of my breath, my ocean observation,
and then some – and you threw the treasure that is me
in a tattered plastic bag to tout about town.
but the jig is up and your chance is through.

so give me back my things – my essence, my sparkle,
my dreams, hopes, desires, love, fear – my self.
leave this package for me,
so i can rise to my own destiny,
so the me-within-me can soar.
holding onto my stuff won’t get you anywhere,
its of no value to you –
because i’m the only one who can handle it.